


Coming Home

by hisfoolishgirl



Category: Forever (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adopted!Sherlock, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, But John frames his own suicide and Sherlock would have liked to have that tag, Found Family, Gen, Immortal!John, John tries to be a good parent, Not Really Character Death, So There is discussion of such matters in this work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 09:23:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14053866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hisfoolishgirl/pseuds/hisfoolishgirl
Summary: It's hard living forever.It's even harder when you just want to stay with your family.





	1. The Meeting At Barts

**Author's Note:**

> Forever was a show that I watched when it first came out, fell in love with it then. It recently came back to my attention and I just couldn't resist writing something with it. Even if I should have. Even if there is so very little of Forever itself in this.
> 
> One day I will write it a proper fanfic. Today, however, is not that day.
> 
> (also - no beta/no brit pick as usual. all errors are absolutely my fault.)

In Sherlock’s youth, he had a sister. An easy, east wind that consumed everything when a flicker of a flame rode it into their lives. It took their house, their parents. Eurus herself.

Mycroft was sent to live with their uncle. He would only take the one.

Sherlock was suppose to live in the system with that abandonment of his family. Mycroft visited him once then, and he had said it was because they saw him and they saw an omen of death. They could see the east wind blowing on his features. His actions chilled them in the same way. 

But their neighbor reached out. Doctor John Hamish the youngest son and last living member of his estate. Sherlock didn’t know why he’d taken so much pity on him. The look in his eyes whenever Sherlock mentioned his dog, Redbeard, was enough to shake him, to still him for a moment before he fired off the bullets of his rambling again.

Every sense of support was his, and John let him spend his evenings in, sheltered away from the world to study. Everyone else was so stupid. But, John could keep up with his mind, or at least he could understand it. Appreciate it.

He was loved, never bullied, by the man that adopted him.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was in college when he’d heard that Hamish passed. He had been about to graduate with his BS in Chemistry. He was 20. He had just spent his birthday with John. He had just celebrated with his father days before Mycroft came to his flat with a letter written in John’s hand in his own hands.

He held the letter as he told Sherlock what had happened. 

John had been sailing, and his boat found with his clothing. His shoes abandoned at the helm of it.

There had been a note. And, then he held it out to Sherlock, and let the younger Holmes read it.

_ I’m sorry, Sherlock, but it’s time for me to leave. Perhaps, I hope, we’ll met on the other side of this. You’re an adult now. You don't need me to hover over with my worried heart. _

_ You are the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. My pride over the man you’ve grown to be could not be greater. _

_ I have been without a family for far too long, and you were that to me. I wish I could stay. I wish, Sherlock. For your sake, I wish that I didn’t have to. But, it’s for your sake, that I have to do  _ this _. _

_ I love you, my son. Until next time.  _

It would have been a mild thing to say that he didn’t take it well, but there were no other words for his reaction. He didn't take it well.

The stumble as he tried to walk away from Mycroft when his brother showed him the letter that they’d found. The grip he’d had on Mycroft’s arm when he read it again, as he tried to keep standing on his feet.

And tighter still when he read it for the third time.

“He wouldn’t have done this,” Sherlock whispered on that manic fourth reading, “He wouldn’t have done this, Mycroft.”

“Brother dear,” Mycroft whispered simply.

“You said that they haven’t found his body yet,” Sherlock looked up from the letter for the first time after finishing reading it for the fifth.

“This was a suicide, Sherlock,” Mycroft whispered. It’s weight matched the grip of Sherlock’s hand on his arm, firm and desperate.

“He wouldn’t have -”

“That’s what’s said for most victims of suicide, Sherlock,” Mycroft continued softly, “I fear you’re letting sentimentality, love, for him-”

Sherlock shook his head, but the back of his hand went to his mouth in an attempt to choke back the sobs. It was successful in its own way. He did not collapse again. He did not give to the urge to roar with his pain. 

But his tears did roll down his cheeks for the first time in over a decade without asking for his consent to do so. 

He’d been bullied by the school kids then. The last time he’d cried. John had asked him what was wrong. It was a year after the death of his parents. A year to the day.

The kids had accused him of doing it, of being the one to burn down the Holmes’ estate. They had accused him of wanting to kill his parents just to see what it felt like, to know what would happen to the human body under such heat. 

Sherlock had let them. Being distant kept him safe. 

John had told him to stop. John had nearly shouted at him to stop pretending. 

He had listened to John, always did, and he cried on John’s shoulder long past his tears.

He stumbled again, and when he’d fallen gently to ground, his hands were a shield against Mycroft’s concerned gaze. They were there to try to catch the tears. To take them away with, hopefully, the pain of what had caused them. That they could be an offering to whatever sort of greater power that might take them to give him his father back.

Sherlock didn’t know when Mycroft left him alone with his grief. But, he did know when he decided to be a detective.

He had decided on his sixth reading of the letter John had left him.

If the police thought it was suicide - If the British Government thought the same - because there was nothing else his Uncle could be and Mycroft rarely went against him in any matter - Then he’d take up the same line of work.

But he’d do it better. And, maybe, he’d find out what had really happened to Joh- to his father.

So he threw himself into his studies. Then he threw himself into the Work, and, when that wasn’t there to catch him, he’d fallen into the drugs.

Anything to keep the pain away. He would do anything to keep the pain and the noise away from his ears. 

The noise that kept repeating one little line in his ear that he’d over heard from one of the elderly that John had tended to during the funeral. 

_ It’s a real shame that he’s gone. Dr. Hamish. In his seventies and looking like that? Real shame for us indeed - would have sworn he wasn’t a day over fifty. _

_ You must be kidding. His boy Sherlock almost looks older then him. _

 

* * *

 

Mycroft had tried to send Sherlock into rehab to handle the drugs.

His father’s will had left Sherlock with the Hamish estate. A clause of the will had left him with the matter of his sobriety to deal with. John had tried to put a clause in to freeze the trust if Sherlock had a falling out with the law in the matter of substance use. It hadn't held, but the knowledge of it was enough to keep Sherlock away from his assets.

Sherlock hadn’t cared about losing access to the lands or the money. The Holmes trust his parents, his actual parents, had left him was enough to live off of.

He simply got better at hiding his highs in response to Mycroft's attempt. He wouldn’t have work as a consulting detective if it was obvious that he was high coming to work after all.

 

* * *

 

Not having the lands meant not having a house. At first, he didn’t mind that. He’d taken up living in Montague St, cheap flat. But then the cab fare proved that it wasn’t really much of a savings.

He’d need a flatmate.

But, as he told the round man at the hospital, Mike Stamford, who would have him as a flatmate?

That afternoon, Mike entered the same lab that they had been speaking in, and Sherlock froze when he saw who Mike brought with him. The man straightened up at the sight of him, but it might have just been because of the military in his posture.

“John?” He whispered before he could stop himself. Father. Dad. Paps. All too casual for his use. Too intimate for him to have ever have gotten use to using. 

John Hamish had never minded that. He had never tried to take his parent’s place. Never in that sort of way. Sherlock had once told him that he loved him in that manner though. The word just hadn’t felt comfortable after years of calling him John. He had asked John if that was okay.

His father had smiled at that, “When you call me John. I hear the same amount of love one might say any of the other titles. You don’t have to use them, Sherlock. I hope you don’t mind the time or two that I might call you son though?”

Sherlock had smiled at that. And he’d rolled his eyes. Never answering because he couldn’t find the words for it. 

“Doctor John Watson,” The man answered slowly. The man that stood before him was a picture perfect image of what he’d remembered his father looking like, “I’m sorry, but-” His voice caught. He cleared his throat, and he turned to look at Mike, “You told him about me?”

Mike shook his head, then he motioned to the door, “I’ve got something to attend to though. I hope you don’t mind if I ditch you here, hm, John?”

John stared at him for a moment, but then he nodded, short and stiff. Military composure. He was struggling at the sight of Sherlock.

That was the only thing about this room that could have triggered an emotional response if it had had nothing to do with Mike.

They both watched Mike leave the room. They watched as the door swung closed behind Mike.

John didn’t turn back to Sherlock. He didn’t look at Sherlock. Tears dripped down his face. He closed his eyes, and after a moment his shoulders shook.

“What was that letter?” Sherlock spat out a moment later with so much venom for the man that was causing tears to fall down his own face. Too much venom for the man he wanted to enfold in his arms so he could never vanish again.

But, he’d vanished once. He’d left him behind. John had left him.

John turned back to Sherlock on the ball of his foot, a gentle slide. He didn’t open his eyes, “ _ John H. Watson, _ ” He repeated, “John W. Hamish would be what? Nearly eighty - no eighty two years old now.” He finally opened his eyes, and the horror couldn’t be hidden from Sherlock. The visceral panic and pain in this moment, “Do I look like I’m-”

“You could have just told me.” Sherlock answered.

“I did,” John whispered, “In the letter. I tried best I could anyways. I tried the best I could to.”

“It was a suicide note,” Sherlock hissed, “You told me you loved me, and then you said goodbye in it.”

John set his cane - how had Sherlock missed that - on the ledge of the counter. He stepped around the corner of it, and he held out his arms, “I’m not you. I’m just a doctor that’s been around for far, far too long.”

“How was leaving me for my-”

“I was going to burn the Hamish Estate and vanish within a year or two when your parents died,” John interrupted, “That’s how I’ve always done it. Vanished in a fire around the time I’d ought to be hitting into my sixties.

“I would have done it again, this time that is. But, I didn’t want a fire taking your family again.”

Sherlock grabbed the counter. He felt like he was choking, “You’re an idiot, John.”

John smirked, “There’s the boy I know.”

Sherlock snapped a glare in John’s direction and the man had the dignity to look shame faced, “I can’t die,” John whispered, “That’s why I left. I don’t age, and I can’t die.”

“Everything dies,” Sherlock whispered back, “I should know.”

“I can stay dead if you want. I can leave.”

Sherlock shook his head something fierce before stilling. He kept his gaze on the floor for a moment hoping to find his voice there. He didn’t find it there, but he still found it anyways, “How dare you say that.”

“Sherlock?”

“I lost access to the estate,” Sherlock answered.

“I didn’t expect you to take it well.”

“That explains why you went to Afghanistan. Or Iraq. Which was it?”

“Afghanistan,” John answered simply.

Sherlock snorted, “What? Went and joined a war zone just to-”

“I had to find work somewhere,” John interrupted, “Somewhere that would get me new paperwork.”

“Uncle Ruddy?” Sherlock asked softly.

John shook his head, “I have a son who set me up. Retired now he is.”

“So vanish on us often then?”

“He grew up moving around, aware of my condition.”

“So, it’s just the -”

“Don’t you finish that sentence, Sherlock.”

“Sherlock Hamish Holmes,” Sherlock answered slowly, “That is my full name if that’s what you wanted to use.”

“Did you drop the William then?”

“No,” Sherlock answered. Silence caught between them for a moment before he finished the admission, “Nor the Scott.”

John reacted. It was sort of smirk pained with a husk of a laugh. Sherlock wasn’t really sure what it was, but it was clear there was too much pain for the amusement to make a full show.

“Was it always John Watson Hamish then?”

John shook his head, “Wilson that time. I was born John Hamish Watson though. It’s been a few centuries, using it again now.”

“Centuries?”

“I was born in the early 1700’s. Doctor on a slave ship, actually during that first life.”

“You?” Sherlock couldn’t believe that out of everything that was being thrown at him. 

John smirked, and he looked away, “Well, the effort did get me thrown off the ship. First death that was.”

“You - You can’t stay dead, can you?”

John swallowed, “Exactly.”

“Dangerous that, in this age of science.”

John nodded slowly. He turned his gaze back to Sherlock, “I wasn’t going to stay away.”

“'Until next time',” Sherlock repeated slowly, “But you didn’t expect to see me here?”

“I went by the estate,” John answered, “Didn’t find you, and, well, I’d been told about Mycroft and how it might be best to avoid drawing attention to myself by Abe.”

“Abe?”

“Retired son. Actually is the age of John Hamish, Sherlock. Abe? It’s short for Abraham. Named him after the man that ended slavery, during the second world war it seemed to be a nice reminder that sometimes there were good leaders and good endings to war times.”

“So, you actually were going to tell me everything?”

“Yes,” John answered with a nod, a muscle flex of his cheek as he watched Sherlock for a moment, “Just not as a kid.”

“Why?”

“Because kids are rubbish at secrets,” John was quick to hold up a placating hand, “Not to say you would have been, but I’ve been in too many padded rooms and attached to too many surgical tables to consider being trusting from the straight away.”

“Surgical tables?” Sherlock asked as he felt the heat fading away from his face, “Padded rooms?”

John’s smile was the broken thing that victims put on to reassure their loved ones, “Nearly two hundred and fifty years leads to a lot of opportunities for slip ups to be made.” 

Sherlock didn’t know what to say to that. So he said nothing. Maybe he said, “Oh.” But he didn’t recall.

John nodded to the microscope that Sherlock still had his fingertips on, “What are you working on now?” He asked softly. Sherlock could almost hear the ‘son’ slipping on to the end of it.

Sherlock thought about the cocaine. He thought about everything he’d done to try to keep the buzz of pain away.

He stared at his father, and Sherlock finally knew his reasons for leaving.

He still asked anyways, “So,” Sherlock ignored John’s jump as he neared Sherlock, focused on the microscope, “It didn’t have anything to do with me?”

“Did what-?” John stopped himself, and John’s right hand started to tremble. He shoved it into his pocket, but only Sherlock seemed to have noticed that. Even then, Sherlock had only barely been the one in the room to do so with his gaze so focused on his father’s eyes.

Sherlock let the silence stay between them as he waited to hear the man in front of him tell him the truth that he’d needed to hear after the last four years of pain he’d put himself through.

“William Sherlock Scott Hamish Holmes,” John said slowly, but firmly leaving no doubt of his conviction in his words, “You were not the reason I framed my own suicide all those years ago. You are in fact, only responsible for my return to London after getting my medical discharge.”

“Medical discharge?” Sherlock asked, "What happened?" He glanced at the abandoned cane at the end of the table.

“Shot in the shoulder,” John shrugged, “Scar and all the damage with it will be gone once I’d died again. Nothing to worry about. As said. Needed the military to confirm that I was a person with all my newly forged papers. It was a good excuse to get out earlier. Nothing to worry about. Would have been a while longer otherwise.” He watched Sherlock’s face for a moment, “And I have feeling I might have missed getting to see you again if that had happened.”

“What?”

“You already told me you lost access to the estate,” John growled, “And you’re far too star struck in the fact that I didn’t die just to get rid of you. So clearly, you’re getting reckless doing your work as a consulting detective. And that?” John poked Sherlock with a definitive poke as if he could literally drive his point home that way, “That recklessness is dangerous when you’re chasing after criminals.”

“You’re a doctor,” Sherlock whispered, “What would you know about-”

“I worked the Jack the Ripper case back in my day and a fair few others,” He pointed at the microscope, “May not have single handedly started forensic science as we know it today, but I sure did go through a stage where handling the dead was far more cathartic a thing to do then handling the living.”

“Oh.”

John nodded, once in the way he always did when a matter was settled. Sherlock turned back to the microscope, “Well- Wait. Do you happen to have a mobile on you?”

John pulled it out and offered it to Sherlock.

Without asking a single question.

Sherlock took it, and he texted to Lestrade before looking his father in the face again, “So? You needed a flatshare then?”

John smiled, “That I do indeed.” Again it ended silently with a word that John had never tried to avoid using.

"It - It's fine," Sherlock whispered. John raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock sighed, "I never told you my answer." He said, "All those years ago. It's fine. If you call me son. Or whatever else you want to use."

John beamed at that, "Oh."

Sherlock smirked, and he grabbed his coat, "I think you'll like Mrs. Hudson, the landlady. Owes me a favor so I'm getting a special rate."

"Favor?"

"Oh yes," Sherlock nodded, "Helped her out when her husband was on death row in Florida."

"Saved him then, son?"

Sherlock smiled, the honest hurt coy thing that it had become over the last few years, "Oh no," Sherlock answered, "I ensured it. Tell me a story of yours then I might tell you one of mine."

John watched him for a moment as the made their way to the door, and Sherlock stared right back at him, "Huh."

"What?" Sherlock froze, nerves finally hitting as his father seemed to flay him with his eyes, "What is it, John?"

John smirked, "Just thinking about how you might really be able to match me story to story is all. That hasn't happened before."

Sherlock laughed. There wasn't much else he could do to a statement like that given by the sort of man that given it.

"Thanks for coming home, John."

"Thanks, son. Thanks for letting me."

Sherlock smiled, and he wrapped his arm around his father's shoulder. He ignored his father when he wiped the tears from his face, and he hoped John did the same when he had to do that as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> might write more to this. props won't, but I like Dad!John so I might pick it up on a whim. so if you're interested might as well go ahead sub to the thing that's marked as a completed work. I won't judge - not this time anyways.
> 
> Plenty to do with an au like this one after all.


	2. The Cabbie Case

* * *

 

 

John stared at the flat, and Sherlock did the same.

“Still can’t clean up-”

Sherlock cleared his throat, and they made way for Mrs. Hudson, “There’s another room upstairs,” She said, “If you’ll be needing two that is.”

Sherlock sputtered and snorted. His eyes snapped in John’s direction, and he found his father smirking at him.

“I think we’ll be needing two, Mrs. Hudson,” John said with a smile, “Sherlock gets quiet shy about-”

“John!”

John looked back at his son, and his smirk didn’t move or waver. The glimmer in his eyes stoke the despair in his son’s.

“Oh,” She said with a hand to her chin, “All the young ones are like that, aren’t they?”

John nodded, “I would agree.”

“He’s not much older then I am!” Sherlock sputtered with wild eyes that were desperate for John to back him up on this.

John refused too. He simply looked at Mrs. Hudson with a glimmer in his eyes, and the younger lady returned it.

Mrs. Hudson patted Sherlock on the elbow, “It’s not the years that make up living,” She said simply, “It’s what happens within them.”

Sherlock was not impressed, and they watched her leave with a wave of her hand. John didn’t let the amusement fade from his face.

“John,” Sherlock moaned, “Why would-”

“What was I supposed to say?” He asked innocently.

“Anything,” Sherlock answered simply, “Anything.”

John pointed at the skull, “Well, I know that isn’t mine.”

Sherlock stared, his eyes showing that his soul was dying even more on the inside.

“Too soon?” He asked innocently.

Sherlock simply stared at him for a moment before shaking his head and stalking away from John, “I don’t even know why I missed you.”

John smirked and then he started cleaning up around the flat, “I know you too well to go into that kitchen.”

Sherlock shrugged, and he pulled away the window shade. John looked up from the coffee table, and he just stared at Sherlock.

It had been four years, and Sherlock looked it. 

“I,” John started. Sherlock turned to him and he swallowed, “I missed you too, son.”

Sherlock’s smile was a ghost, but John knew it for what it was. They fell into a comfortable silence as Sherlock stared out the window and John started cleaning up after his son.

“One of these days,” John grumbled.

“Hm?”

“One of these days you’re going to be able to tiddy up on your own.”

Sherlock turned to him with a raised eyebrow, and John felt his frown borrowing into his face, “Fine. I’m a hopeful man despite my age, kay?”

Sherlock frowned at that, and then turned back to his window, for only a moment, “Have you been biting back the snarky comments for years?”

“I am very patient man,” John answered, “And I have a reputation to uphold now.” He looked back up at Sherlock and flashed his pearls, smiled wide, “Dad jokes and all that.”

Sherlock moaned. He groaned, but he stopped as his gaze slide back to the window. A wide smile fell on his face, “I’m a detective-”

“Read the website,” John interrupted, “Very enlightening.”

Sherlock frowned, and his sharp gaze was question enough.

“Not sarcastic!” John defended himself, “You should know that.”

Sherlock frowned for a moment, but then he smiled, “You would waste your time on that blog, wouldn’t you?”

“Have plenty of it to waste,” John quickly affirmed.

“Please stop,” Sherlock answered simply. Then he nodded to the door. John glanced at it, and then stared at it as a man flew into the apartment.

“Where?” Sherlock asked with a smirk.

“Really?” John sputtered, “Have you forgotten how hello’s work?”

Sherlock froze, and the newcomer stared at Sherlock as Sherlock turned his gaze to John. Like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. While posing and trying to look very cool and not guilty while doing it.

John frowned at him in response - and in disappointment.

He shouldn’t have left him alone and in Mycroft’s hands. Because that had been the only family he’d had had left, and Mycroft Holmes always thought he knew best. Avoid all the mistakes Eurus set up for them to fall into. 

That being sentiment. Not curiosity. The far greater sin the child had fallen into in John’s opinion. 

The new comer looked at John, “And who are you?”

“His father apparently if I have reteach him manners,” John snapped before running a hand down his face, “Potential flatmate,” He amended with a weak voice, “That’s all. Just met today. A bit desperate I am.”

The man snorted, and John’s heart broke just a little bit more.

Should have tricked Sherlock into joining the military as well. Med school maybe. It had only been four years. He’d just be graduating that now.

Graduation gift would have been easy. Surprise - the man that adopted you because your sister murdered all the good parts of your family is actually still alive!

John groaned at the thought.

The new comer stared at John a moment more before turning back to Sherlock, “Lausten Gardens,” He whispered before pointing at John, “Is he going to be okay?”

“I doubt I’ll be the one that ends up with the claim of being the one to break him,” Sherlock answered with a tone drier then the Sahara, or California, “What’s new about this one? I’ve been trying to get in on this case for weeks now. You wouldn’t be coming here if there-”

“The sucidies?” John interrupted, “They really are the work of a serial killer?”

“Who is this man?” The officer - because clearly police now - repeated.

“He’s my father,” Sherlock commented with a roll of his eyes, “Clearly. He’s already told you that once.”

The man stared at John for a moment more before just silently nodding and turning back to Sherlock, “This one? Left a note she did.”

Sherlock engaged with the man at that point, “A note?”

“That’s what he said,” John said with a smile. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Who’s on forensics?”

“Anderson,” The man shly admitted.

Sherlock turned to John, “I remember someone mentioning you worked in pathology before, right?”

“Years ago,” John whispered softly, “But it was an internship. Before the war.” He said for the sake of whoever it was that had -

“Then you’re coming,” Sherlock informed him.

“He is not-”

“John? Are you coming?”

“Since I can’t seem to leave bloody alone for five minutes without trying to burn the world down - Yes. Yes I am.”

“You think you can keep him in line?” The man asked. The only strength in his voice was his desperate desire that he might not be in the wrong to have a bit of hope.

John crossed his arms and stared at Sherlock, “Yes,” Sherlock answered emphatically, “John will keep me ‘in line’ as it were if that’s what it takes for you to let him in there with me, Lestrade.”

Lestrade nodded, defeated. John nodded towards him, “Lead the wa-”

“I’m not going in a squad car, John,” Sherlock answered tightly, “We’ll be following behind in a cab.”

John froze, and he stared at Lestrade seeing the man’s desperation in a new light.

He wasn’t desperate to close the case. He was desperate to close the deal he felt he was making with the devil to close the case. 

John stilled, and he watched as Lestrade nodded and left.

“They think you’re a murderer,” John whispered softly. Soft enough that Sherlock might mistake it for a question.

“Occastionally.”

“That’s not bad manners,” John whispered. He hissed, “That’s not something that’s thought of someone just because they forget to say hello when they start a conversation!”

Sherlock looked away, and he watched out the window. He watched Lestrade, presumably, as he climbed inside the car, “I may have been harassing them a bit to get on this case-”

“William.”

“Oh, Don't William me,” Sherlock growled, “They all ruled off your death as a suicide all those years ago. The police are idiots.”

“You do realize that I staged it to look like that, don't you?” John asked plainly, “That is what all the clues that were left behind were supposed to say.”

“You said.”

“Okay then,” John’s voice was soft then, “And, I am not actually dead. So maybe you can-"

“Start playing nice?”

“Nicer.” John said, “I did raise you. I know what you’re like. You didn't just roll over and then into a prick just because your father died.”

Sherlock frowned at that, but he couldn’t say a thing to it. John clasped Sherlock by the shoulder, and he pulled him close. He whispered in his ear, “Now, Time to go show off to your man just what you’ve learned and become in the last four years, don’t you think? Show him everything he missed - that he was a right fool for leaving you behind?”

Sherlock, at that, smirked, and then they were off to Lausten Gardens at a furious pace, only hindered by the speed limits and the cabbie’s adherence to them.

 

* * *

 

 

“And who is this?” She asked as they approached.

“Sally Donovan, Sherlock said with a sweeping motion towards the lady glowering at them - for it was a rather over the top glare in John’s opinion, and then Sherlock motioned to John as he stood beside him, “Doctor John Watson. He’s my assistant for the evening. Lestrade already gave me his permission for him coming along.”

“Permission?” Sally snorted, “When do you ask for permission?”

Sherlock glanced at John, and it was only the centuries of lying and hiding that kept the amusement from John’s face.

 

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

 

John could only pinch the bridge of his nose as he stared at Sherlock in the yard. Sherlock was trying to, very valiantly, hide a harpoon behind his back, “And just what is that?” He asked.

“A harpoon-” Sherlock piped up with all the enthusiasm an eight year old boy could managed while staring at the face of their father’s disapproval.

“I-” John raised a hand to further reassure the boy that he did not need the lecture on the history of the harpoon and it’s uses. He was well aware of them, “I know what it is, but I don’t know why you have it.”

“Mrs. Hanson from down the street gave me permission!”

“And, Sherlock, when have you ever asked for permission?”

“She did-”

“That doesn’t mean that she had the permission to give to you, Sherlock,” John growled, “Now go put it back. You’re not keeping that in the house.”

“But-”

“No, buts, young man,” John answered with a frown, “I’m not going to have you chucking it up into trees. Because I know that’s what you want to do with it, Sherlock. Tie a rope onto it, and then use it as a grappling hook in the backyard to swing about.”

Sherlock sighed, caught red handed, and without another word he went back to Mrs. Hanson’s, down the street, and returned the item he’d borrowed.

He came back home after that, and when he couldn’t find his father in the house he went to the back.

John was standing there with ropes around his chest and a grappling hook in his hand, “Now,” John said, “This is what we’ll do. I’ll throw it - because I know what I’m doing - and then you’ll figure it out from watching so you don’t end up harpooning either of us. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!” Sherlock answered before leaping into the air hooting with excitement as John lead them into the small grove that had plenty of trees that might even rivaled John in age.

 

~ ~ ~

 

“Assistant?” Sally asked, “He didn’t follow you home or something, did he?”

John raised an eyebrow at that, “Hm?”

Sherlock raised the crime scene tape, “We do have work to get too, John.”

John smirked, and his eyes flickered up and down Sally as he passed by her.

_ Deodorant. _

_ Knees. _

“Sorry you didn’t make it home last night,” John told her, “Maybe we’d have had a better introduction if you’d gotten a proper night’s sleep.”

He glanced at Sherlock, and Sherlock watched him. They kept moving all the same as Sally’s mouth opened without words to match the effort.

“Now,” Another officer shouted as they approached, “I don’t want you messing up my crime scene!”

Sherlock smirked, and he looked back at John, “Do you think he’s addressing me or you?”

“You clearly,” John snorted, “I’m on crime scenes all the time.”

“Really?”

“I - I just got back from an active warzone, Sherlock. So. No. Not as of late anyways.”

“Oh.”

The man that had been shouting at them, had also been trying to get a word in edgewise if the red hue to his face was anything to go by, “And who is this?” He hissed with a pointed finger in John’s direction.

“Flatmate,” John answered with an extended hand, “And Sherlock’s assistant for the forensics.”

The man did not shake his hand. He turned to Sherlock, “Really?”

“Wife away for long?” Sherlock answered in response.

“There’s no way of you -”

“Sally’s wearing the same deodorant,” John answered softly, “Now. I think we were requested here for a reason?”

Sherlock nodded, and he took point as they walked past the man.

“Oi!” Sally shouted from behind them.

Sherlock glanced at John, and John shook his head. They kept walking and closed the door behind them.

“Professionals I see.” John commented tightly.

“We have a bit of a history,” Sherlock conceded.

“Bloody brilliant,” John grumbled with a glare at his son.

Sherlock had the decency to flinch when he refused to met John’s eyes.

“I could have sworn you were raised better then that.”

Sherlock shrugged, and they slipped between the officers that were wandering around cataloging everything else in the crime scene, “Not as if you helped,” Sherlock eventually commented. His eyes flickered over John, as if seeing him anew for the second time that day.

“Use to reading people. Dangerous not know when a woman’s having an affair,” He grumbled before pointedly looking away, “And we did just - You didn’t get your impulse control from me and we both know it. I’ve only had you back in my life for an hour, yeah? Wasn’t going to let them walk all over you.”

Sherlock stopped, and he stared at John.

For the first time in a very long time, John wasn’t sure what either one of them was looking at. He didn’t know what he was seeing, and he didn’t know what Sherlock saw.

“Thanks,” Sherlock eventually whispered. He nodded once at that, and John knew. 

They were seeing each other for the first time in a long time.

“I missed you.” John answered.

“I - It would seem so,” Sherlock whispered. His voice cracked a little bit more then he’d expected. It had cracked just a little, “I missed you too, John.”

 

* * *

 

Lestrade had never seen someone stand beside Sherlock comfortably. He watched as the two of them moved around the victim, Jennifer Wilson. John examined her fingernails and mouth. Lestrade knew he was trying to confirm COD. 

He already knew what had killed her however, so he turned his gaze to Sherlock, and he watched as his consultant saw the things he could never imagine being able to see by looking at a corpse.

“John?” Sherlock asked.

John nodded, “You?”

“Married. Ten years or more. Affairs. Works in the news, and recently down from Cardiff.”

“I swear if you’re making it up-” Lestrade started.

John pointed to the woman’s hand, the one with the wedding rings, “You saw him them off, yeah?” John asked.

Lestrade nodded.

“It’s an older style, not old but not current either,” John said, “So that’s how he got the age of the marriage. The state of the marriage is from it being clean on the inside and dirty on the outter.”

“What?” Lestrade managed. He turned to Sherlock, “Where did you find him?”

“He found me actually,” Sherlock answered absently as his gaze was focused on the note, “And he has a history of worrying about affairs with his lovers.” He smiled at Lestrade and opened his mouth before John cleared his throat. Pointedly.

Sherlock glanced at John, and then turned back to note.

It left Lestrade speechless.

Anderson however spoke from the door, “Rache,” He said, “It’s German for-”

John stalked over to the door, smiled at Anderson, and then closed the door in his face. Lestrade was surprised to see Sherlock staring at John with as much surprise as he had at the display. “Do you think it’s German?” John asked, “That the four unconnected victims have been killed for revenge?”

Sherlock smiled. The sort of smile that Lestrade had never seen on his face. Fond. It was fond. Loving even, but he knew better then to think that Sherlock was about to sweep the other man off his feet. 

Proud. Sherlock had a glimmer of pride in his eyes. That was how he knew.

Perhaps, John really could be this man’s assistant. He kept up with Sherlock better then Lestrade could ever dream of anyways.

“Exactly, John,” Sherlock beamed, “Rachel. It’s short for Rachel.” He turned to Lestrade, “Where’s the suitcase?”

“Suitcase?” Lestrade answered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and then fell in beside Lestrade and pointed at her heel, “Spray pattern. On one ankle. Suitcase. Overnight bag.”

“This have to do with her being from Cardiff and working in the news?”

Sherlock glanced at John with a very pained, pained look. John was not a source of empathy at the moment however. It was the sort of look Lestrade would get from his father whenever he’d done something to strain the man’s nerves. 

And, having to handle Sherlock was like handling a child so he felt no remorse in the comparison.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered before taking a deep breath, “Effort in her appearance. Coordinating with a hue of pink chosen to stand out. Media. I know she’s from cardiff because her coat is still wet, and wet under the collar, but her umbrella is dry. So,” He pulled out his phone, and he - actually - showed Lestrade the search results he’d found moments earlier, “Cardiff. Media personal coming from Cardiff to London with an overnight bag? And alone? Most sort of correspondent coming down for a job interview tomorrow.”

“There is no suitcase,” Lestade responded, “No one’s found a suitcase.”

Sherlock smiled at that, and he turned to John, “Christmas day is what this is.”

“I don’t follow,” John answered with a desperate look to Lestrade. Lestrade was not the one holding the answer that he was looking for.

“Serial killers-” He started before flinging open the door, “Anyone found a suitcase?” Lestrade stepped beside John and they slowly followed Sherlock out of the room, “Anyone?” He shouted again before running down the stairs to ask more quietly.

“We still don’t know there was there anyone else-” Lestrade started to call after Sherlock.

“He took the suitcase! He made a mistake,” Sherlock shouted back before a door slammed shut.

“Shite,” John hissed before dashing down the steps, “I didn’t think he was just going to leave quite yet!”

“He does that,” Lestrade mumbled as he watched John vanish from sight as well. The door slammed shut again, “And it seems he’s not the only one that does.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

John glanced about as dashed after his son, but he didn’t see Sherlock, not even a flicker of the tail of his coat as he rounded around a corner.

He shouldn’t be surprised, but he sighed with a bit of disappointment anyways. He glanced around, and he winced when he saw Sally. She was the one who was standing by the exit, and she was glaring off at the distance.

John walked up, slowly, behind her, “Did you happen to see which way he went?”

“What is he to you?” She asked instead of answering.

“Family,” John answered without missing a beat, “He’s family to me, Sally. Which way did you see him go?”

“He doesn’t have family,” She answered, “Or rather that’s what I’d like to say, but for as much as he - and apparently you - seem to know about me. I don’t know a thing about either of you.”

“You know that I’m willing to claim that Sherlock is family,” He answered, “And that I’m a doctor. I think I also mentioned that I’ve just returned from being stationed in a warzone. Although that might have been something mentioned in front of the other one… Apologizes by the way. Just wasn’t expecting such a warm welcome.”

Sally snorted, “If you’re family with Sherlock then you shouldn’t be-”

“His father committed suicide four years ago,” John cut her off with a clipped tone, “I haven’t seen him once since.”

Sally stared at John, and her complexion faded as the blood drained from her face, “Really?”

John nodded, “He didn't think it was that. That’s why he’s decided to involve himself in criminal investigations apparently.” John took a moment, and he swallowed. The weight of his words was a new weight on his soul for all his actions against Sherlock. They were good - he was forgiven anyways - but there was nothing John could ever do to undo what he’d done. As much as he might wish too, “He didn’t think his dad could do that, and the police said that that was exactly what had happened. Sherlock even had a letter, hand written from his father. Still decided the police were too incompetent for the matter because they refused to believe him when he said his father would never do something like that.”

“Oh god,” Sally whispered. Her hand pressed to her mouth.

“He was always sharp. Was going to be scientist. Go off on adventures as a chemist - discover the world after graduating. Never happened after that.”

John couldn’t look at Sally, “It wasn’t even his dad,” He amended, “Sherlock was adopted at five or some age like that. I always get it mixed up. Young, but old enough to know what he lost in the house fire that took his blood family away from him.”

Sally stared off into the distance, “He went to the left,” Sally whispered, “Maybe you can find him still.”

John nodded, and he tried to step past her. She grabbed his shoulder, “That - That wasn’t your story to tell was it?”

“Doctor John Wilson Hamish,” John answered, “He was my blood, distantly, but Sherlock is still my family even if the only connecting piece between us is technically dead.”

Sally nodded weakly, and she let John go. He gave her a moment, but she didn’t speak up again. He went running after Sherlock, cursing in his mind the time that he’d wasted.

He would later curse the fact that he hadn’t noticed the ringing phone booth.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock noticed John wasn’t behind him after checking the second skip. He had told John to watch at the first one, and that had given him nothing. So he began the next dash to another skip.

It was then when he tried to talk to John that he noticed his father wasn’t there.

His phone fortuitously rang though from an unidentified number. Number was on the site, but Sherlock answered anyways with a simple response, “John?”

“You bloody idiot,” John growled, “Where are you?”

“Oh,” Sherlock glanced around, “I’m at-”

John’s curse interrupted him, “Apologizes-”

“We don’t still have a swear jar, John,” Sherlock informed.

“Fuckin’ right that,” John amended with a laugh, “ANyways. I might be kidnapped soon.”

“What?” Sherlock didn’t dare try to hide his panic.

“Mycroft keeps ringing the pay phones and other public phones as I walk by them,” John answered with a verbal shrug of simply bothered but not irritated, “I have a feeling that if he really wanted to just talk he’d have rung the number I’m using.”

“He is rather melodramatic.”

“He is, isn’t he?”

“Are you going to talk to him?”

“Nah,” John answered, “I mean. I’d rather not. Kid isn’t one that I’d really like to trust my secret with after all, but I don’t know if I’ll have much of a choice.”

“If he’s spotted you with me, and hasn’t just kidnapped you,” Sherlock answered after a moment of thought, “Then he doesn’t know. I doubt he’ll believe it.”

John nodded. Sherlock couldn’t see it, but he knew the pause all the same, “Thanks.” John answered, “I wasn’t sure.”

“It was stupid of me to think it was you right away.”

“Well, you have spent more then a few years with me,” John answered casually, “Anyways. I should handle this, shouldn’t I?”

Sherlock shrugged, “If you must.”

“It will save us sometime,” John answered, “Maybe.”

“Give him my regards.”

“If he’s figured out who I am,” John answered with a nod, “Then I will do exactly that. If you find that suitcase though…”

“Yes, John?”

“Make sure you tell Lestrade,” John answered with a moan, “We don’t need him arresting us on my first day back just because we were obstructing his case.

Sherlock laughed, “No promises,” He answered before he hung up. Time to get back to work. Time for him to find the skip with the suitcase in it.

And then, maybe, maybe he would call Lestrade as his father requested because maybe John had a point. That would not be a good end to the day. Chinese takeout on the other hand was.

Sherlock nodded. He decided to knock the maybe out of the equation at that, but he’d call once he made it back to the flat with the case.

Probably.

 

* * *

  
  


John smiled at the woman, “So what’s your name then?”

“Uh…,” She thought about it like he had centuries ago after his second death.

 

~ ~ ~ 

 

His first death had left him tossed over the edge of a ship and waking back at the shores of England. He had been surprisingly close to home.

Then, he returned home. He kissed his wife, and he told her everything that had happened then. Sara hadn’t been an ear that would listen to him. He should have known better.

He watched her hold their son close to her side when they took him away. His son’s cries rang in his ears as he cried under the torture of the asylum.

It had been a luck of fate that his wounds had been infected, that the chill in the air had taken him quietly within a month of confinement.

He changed his name at that, and he decided to work with graves. Best to avoid people for a while was what he had decided.

 

 

~ ~ ~

 

“That’s not your real name, is it?” He asked.

“No,” She answered finally smiling at him, for only a moment before turning back to the mobile in her hands.

“Any point in asking where we’re going?”

“Not at all, John.”

John smirked at that, “Of course you know.”

“Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

John was escorted out of the car, and he saw Mycroft standing in the empty warehouse. He had expected to see the man with his uncle’s umbrella - an old, surprising thing that would service in a pinch if he did need something to defend himself with - but he hadn’t pictured that it could ever take being lead on.

_ Perhaps _ , John thought with a tint of Sherlock to the tone of it,  _ the sword in it helped it handle his weight. _

“Doctor Watson,” Mycroft purred, “I brought a chair. I had expected to offer it to you. For your limp.”

John gave the man nothing at that comment and simply marched up to man, “You could have just phoned me,” He said, “On my phone. Not that isn’t clever and all, but. I do have a phone. For being phoned on.”

Mycroft motioned to their surroundings, “When one is trying to avoid the attention of Sherlock Holmes - it does require measures such as these.”

“Oh, I already called him. He sends his regards, Mycroft.”

Mycroft stilled.

“Pay phones do not just ring.” John answered, “I figured it had to do with him.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and his gaze flickered up and down John, “Abe gave a glowing review for your promotion, Captain.”

“I would hope so,” John answered, “My family’s been a long time friend of his family. Do you have a point here or are you just fishing for something?”

Mycroft smiled in the same way a snake would have. Or as Rudy Holmes would have. Not much of a difference to John’s experience, “Is there something I should be fishing for?”

“Not your brother’s boyfriend,” He answered simply, “Just met today. You know what army pensions are like. Simply looking a flat.”

“And yet,” Mycroft answered, “You’re now running around London with him solving crimes together.”

“As an official of the British government I am rather surprised that you’re trying to chide me for continuing in a spirit of public service for my country.”

That made Mycroft frown, and John wished there was a manner he could get away with photographing it for Sherlock. Alas, nothing he thought of seemed to be an appropriate reason to pull out the mobile for it, “Just what did he tell you about me?”

“He’s melodramatic,” John answered, “What do you think he told me?”

“Arch enemy?”

“I took that to meaning that you worked for Big Brother,” John answered with a nod, “Rather free spirited he seems.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft drawled, “Indeed he does seem to be that.” He squinted at John, and John hoped his stubborn will would be enough to take the newly forming knots out of his back, “You seem rather familiar, Dr. Watson. Is it possible that we’ve met somewhere before?”

John raised an eyebrow, “Did you study at Barts to be a doctor?” He asked.

“No. Perhaps it was somewhere other then that.”

“Part of invading Afghanistan then?”

“Would you happen to know the Hamish family?”

“Middle name is Hamish. Mother’s maiden name. Distant connection to the main family. But when I was a wee one I would visit uncle John. I was named after him after all.”

Mycroft sighed, “So you’ve known Sherlock for a while then?”

John smirked, “Enough to know that Sherlock’s right about your need for a diet after all.”

Mycroft was struggling to keep his exasperation from his face, which meant he wasn’t doing a good job at doing exactly that, “Just as childish then I see.”

“I do like to think that I’m still the more mature one out of the two of us,” John admitted with a wide and ever growing smirk on his face, “But that’s really not saying much is it?”

“No,” Mycroft answered, “It’s really not.”

John nodded, “So. Are we done here then?”

“I’ll be watching you two closely.” Mycroft told him.

“Then I’ll make sure we put on quite the show for you,” John answered with a glimmer ever growing in his eyes, “Good thing he’s family, eh?”

Mycroft groaned and he waved back to the car behind John, “Have a good evening, Dr. Watson. It was a pleasure to finally met you.”

John nodded, “Same to you, Mycroft.” John answered dropping all the snark, “Sherlock really does love you.”

Mycroft stared at John with more then a hint of surprise in his eyes. The shock might have been from the emotional whiplash, but Mycroft’s pained smile was back a moment later, “Shame then. Sentiment is always found in the losing side in our family.”

John laughed. Exactly the sort of answer he’d expect from Rudy’s boy, “I’ll tell Sherlock you’re passing on your regards as well. Might even drop the ‘L’ word on him as well.”

Mycroft rested the handle of his umbrella in the fold of his elbow as he attempted to use both hands to rub the aches out of his brain, “As you must,” He moaned, “I will not be surprised by any course of action that falls upon you.”

John nodded, “Have a good evening, Mycroft. Enjoy your evening of stalking us, will you?”

Mycroft pulled his hands away from his face, straightened back up and rested the umbrella comfortably in front of him. The picture of comfortable authority, “That, John,” He said, “Is exactly what I plan to do.”

“Dr. Watson,” John answered before heading back to Anthea, “There’s somewhere that I need to stop off by before going back to 221b,” He told her. She nodded.

“Just give me the address, and we’ll go by there.”

“Thank you, dear.”

Mycroft snorted at the word that showed John’s age, and John smirked at Mycroft as he closed the door behind him knowing that even if something is shown that doesn’t mean that it’s been seen.  
  


* * *

 

_ I am going to waste Mycroft’s gas by having him drive me to my bedsit to grab my things. Don’t wait up on my account. -JW _

Lestrade stared at Sherlock, and Sherlock did not enjoy that or John’s text.

_ How’s his diet working for him? _

_ He’s on a diet? Good for him. _

Sherlock smirked at that.

_ Oh. He didn’t say to send his regards, but he does love you, Sherlock. It’s adorable that he’s willing to abuse his powers to kidnap anyone your friends. Explains why you couldn’t find a flatmate. _

_ That’s what explained it? _

_ I mean. I know, Sherlock. It was a joke.   _

“Sherlock?” Lestrade spoke up, “You were walking me through the suitcase?”

“Sorry,” Sherlock answered with a strained smile, “Can I see your mobile though? Something just happened and I need to adjust the plans for the evening.”

“Oh?” Lestarade followed his arms, “And is your mobile not good enough for whatever it is you’re planning to do?”

“Number is on the website,” He answered, “And we need to find the killer don’t we?”

“You mean the killer has the phone?”

“That is most likely, but hardly confirmed. So we text, and if the killer responses to the text - We have that confirmed. Bait them to met up with their victim more precising. That way we can confirm that it is precisely the killer responding and not just a someone that’s found it.”

Lestrade nodded, and he pulled out his mobile, “So what am I texting for you then?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and he held out his hand.

Lestrade stared back at him, “As if I’m letting you near this. Tell me the message, Sherlock.”

He sighed. He rolled his eyes, but he told Lestrade the message and the number. He watched the Inspector send it. Then he smirked, “Now. We have to go on a stake out.”

Lestrade frowned, “No. I have to-”

“John’s going to be a while,” Sherlock interrupted with a shrug, “Now, unless you want me handling a serial killer on my own…”

“I hate you, Sherlock. I really do.”

“But you need me.”

“Dear god. Do I.” Lestrade rubbed at his face as he stood up. He motioned to the arm, “Lead the way then, Sherlock. Got the whole evening planned out I presume to ensure that we’ll catch the mad man?”

Sherlock smiled, “You know me too well, Inspector.”

“I know you well enough,” Lestrade corrected with a force that Sherlock did not think was necessary, “And we’re going to keep it that way. We’re not friends, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smirked, “Good. I wouldn’t know how to do friends anyways.”

“Seems like you do it well enough John,” Lestrade mumbled as they made their way down the stairs.

“Really?” Sherlock asked out genuine curiosity, “That’s what we look like together?”

“We’ll your not lovers-” Lestrade stopped, “You’re not are you?”

“Family,” Sherlock answered with a shake of his head and a smile on his lips, “He’s family but not like that.”

“Oh good,” Lestrade grumbled, “You two seemed to act more like brothers anyways. It would have scarred me for life if I’d heard you were actually intimate.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder before opened the door to the street, “Brothers?” He asked.

“John seems like the sort of paternally minded older brother. What with the way he keeps you in line and all that.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said with an embarrassing light tint to his tone.

“Something about what I said?”

“John isn’t that closely related - and my actual older brother would hardly be described as such. He’s much worse then I am in fact.”

“I would say impossible, but I’ll brace and expect it to be true if I ever do happen to met him.”

Sherlock nodded, “Probably for the best that,” Sherlock conceded, “Let me get us a cab.”

 

* * *

 

 

When John made his way back to 221b, he had Anthea trailing behind him with a box in her hands as well. There was shouting up the stairs, but he recognized Sherlock’s voice. Another shout. He recognized Lestrade’s.

He hurried his way up the stairs, and he stared at the living room that was a mess from the officers looking through everything.

Sherlock and Lestrade were in a staring match when Sally noticed him, “Drugs bust,” She said, “Lestrade fell off the board after catching up with Sherlock to follow up on a lead.” She fell in place beside John, “It was Anderson’s idea. Thought Sherlock was the one behind the murders.”

“Did you?”

“Not - Not after what you told me, but I didn’t think it was my place to share it with the group.”

John nodded. She was right about that, “Thank you.” He whispered.

She nodded as well, “About earlier… I never did say sorry.”

“I’m not the only one to apologize to.”

She looked at Sherlock, and then she looked at Lestrade, “Yeah. I don’t think that it’s the right time for that.”

“I can’t argue - what happened?”

“Apparently they pulled someone over on suspicion and it was someone who had just flown in from LA. Inspector’s not happy with Sherlock now for the wild goose chase.” 

“And Sherlock hasn’t been taking it with any amount of ease, has he?”

Sally shook her head in confirm, “Not at all. Not when he came home to find this going on.”

“There are eyeballs in the microwave!” The man she was having an affair with.

“Anderson,” She moaned.

The man - Anderson motioned to towards them, “Eyeballs!” He repeated.

Sherlock snapped his attention in Anderson’s direction, but before he could speak he noticed Sally and John. He straightened up, and he stared.

John glanced at Sally, and then he looked at Lestrade. Anthea cleared her throat, “My room’s upstairs,” He told her before setting his box down on the couch, “I’ll escort you out,” He said a moment later.

She glanced at Sherlock and the rest of the room, and she sighed. She nodded with relucantance, spotting that old manner of gentleman behavior as an excuse to leave whatever it was that he’d returned to.

“Really, John?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes,” John answered, “Now -  _ Really, Sherlock _ ?”

“The cab had to have had the killer in it!” Sherlock snapped, “I was sure! Why else would he have stopped there? No one got out.”

John folded his arms, and the realization flooded Sherlock’s eyes.

“Oh.”

John heard the steps behind him, and he glanced at Lestrade for just a moment, “I’m gonna step out, as you explain it to the detective then, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded, weakly, “I missed it. I alway miss something.”

“No you don’t,” Lestrade sputtered, “I hate it, but I know you-”

“I did with dad!” Sherlock spat as he paced away. He stilled when he ran his words through his head again, and John stopped on the stairs. Anthea almost walked into him. He turned and he saw Sherlock standing in the view from the door frame. Tears were streaming down his face. A moment later, his eyes were fluttering about the room as if he’d realized what he’d done and who he’d done it in front of.

Sally glanced over her shoulder, and she step in the way of John’s view. He could still hear inside the room.

“What? What does your dad have to do with anything?” Lestrade snapped.

“Suicide,” Sherlock whispered, “I missed the fact that he would be willing to kill himself. I  _ missed that.  _ How?”

John swallowed, and then kept down the stairs.

He nodded to Anthea as she left, and as her ride pulled away a cab pulled up into its place.

The cabbie stepped out, “Do you live here?” The man asked with a smile, “I’ve been called out here to pick up one Sherlock Holmes.”

It was impulsive. It was reckless.

It was his gamble for his son’s life.

He would risk his own, any day, to protect what little he had in his life. So, John glanced at the cars, the squad cars across the street and he smiled as he spoke, “It’s a bit dangerous for you come out here, isn’t it?”

The man settled back and he smiled at John, “Yes,” He answered, “And if you call for them, Sherlock. I won’t try to run away.”

John knew in that moment that the man wasn’t the brains behind it. He didn’t recognize Sherlock on sight. 

It also proved that Sherlock had had the wrong cab earlier. Might have had had the right one to begin with, but it sounded like it might have been a different cab by the end of it then. 

Not that it mattered to John. Not in the moment when the murderer continued.

“But I won’t tell you how it was done,” He said, “You’ll have to come with me for that.”

John nodded without any hesitation, and he climbed into the cab. It was the only way to protect Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock stood there. The tears were burning down his face as he stared at Lestrade’s face, “I didn’t,” He whispered. He looked away, and he stumbled over to his desk, and he pulled out the letter, wrapped in a protective sleeve. He handed it over to Lestrade.

“Please,” He whispered, “Leave. Now. You know it’s a cab driver who’s just chatting up victims and killing the ones that won’t be missed right away.”

Lestrade stared at the letter in his hand. He read it. Then he read it again, and he looked up at Sherlock with new eyes, “When?” He asked.

“Years ago,” He whispered, “Now. Please. I’ve done enough that even you lot can track down the killer?”

Lestrade sighed, “Better lead then we’ve had so far anyways.” But he nodded, and he motioned for his men to leave.

And Sherlock sat down. His hands shook, and he took a deep breath as he waited for John to come back into the flat.

Then, he looked out the window, and he saw that the street below was empty. He pulled out his phone, and stared at John’s number, the incoming call in his log that John had used before Mycroft picked him up.

He rung it. It was disconnected after the second ring.

John couldn’t pick up the phone.

He called Mycroft before he could think about it.

“Sherlock?” He asked, picking it up before the first ring was through.

“Was there a cab outside of my flat?” He asked. His voice didn’t feel like his own.

“That is quite the odd-”

“The cabbie has John,” Sherlock nodded, “It’s the only explanation.” His words still didn’t feel like his.

“Unless he decided to leave, Sherlock,” Mycroft answered softly, “You’ve never been the easiest to handle.”

“He wouldn’t,” Sherlock answered with a bit more strength, a bit more certainty that his words were in fact his, “But, there is a reason why I’m calling you.

“At least you’re still the same young rational man that I claim blood with,” Mycroft grumbled, “According to the CCTV - you are right. After my assistent left 221b, a cab pulled up, the driver stepped out. They talked - I can’t make out what - and then they left together.”

“Do you know where they went to from there?”

“No, Sherlock.”

“What do you mean no?” Sherlock sputtered, “The cab driver is a murderer. John is in danger-”

“I’ve done background on him, and his papers have holes. Whoever John Hamish Watson is - it isn’t that man no matter what he’s told you -”

Sherlock hung up on his brother. 

_ Racheal.  _ Why would she think about-

_ No laptop- _

_ Her phone! _

Email address enabled. 

Racheal was the password for tracking her phone.

And - 

_ The murderer had her phone. _

And, that was something that Sherlock could work with.

 

* * *

 

“I was warned about you.”

Those were the words that shattered the silence in the cab. John stared at the man for a moment, “Oh really?” He asked softly, “By who?”

“A fan.”

“That’s hardly informative,” John replied.

“That’s all you’ll get.”

“Really? Because clearly he’s paying you for this. So not really so much of a fan then is he? More of a businessman. Whose business is death and murder. I’ve been causing him problems and you’re here to get me out of his way aren’t you?”

The man froze, but he only glanced in his rear view mirror to look at John, “You’re not Sherlock Holmes.”

“So he does give you scripts to follow. To talk them to death then.”

“That’s why you were silent,” The man breathed.

John chuckled, “Oh no. I just didn’t want to talk to you.”

“Oh? And why is that Mr. Holmes?”

John smirked, and he decided to pull his cards close to his chest, “You seem rather boring is all.”

That seemed like something his pretentious son would say.

The curl of a frown told John he’d guessed right. They finished the ride in silence, and once he’d parked, John watched him leave the car to walk around to escort him out.

“Why here?”

“It’s quiet.”

“That’s a rather quiet answer as well. I hope it isn’t how you get your victims to follow you normally.”

“Oh no, Mr. Holmes,” He said with a smile and a freshly drawn gun, “That’s what this is for.”

“Impressive piece,” John answered with a smile.

“I won’t be needing it with you though will I?”

“I want your employer’s name.”

“Do you think he’ll pay me if I give it to you?”

“I think he won’t know. This is a quiet spot after all.”

The man smirked, and he motioned with his gun for John to start moving. He didn’t. He knew a real gun when he saw it after all.

“Unless you plan on getting me wet or flamed - I’m not moving without the guarantee that playing your game will give me a name.”

“No one else had noticed it’s a fake,” The man said with a frown.

John pulled the piece he had in the back of his waistband, “Answer enough?” He asked before putting it back, “But I don’t think I’ll need that with you, will I?”

The man stared at John, “If you win the game - I’ll give you the name.”

John nodded, and he followed. 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock’s phone rang, and he checked the number as he directed the driver to follow the directions. Mycroft’s number.

He rejected the call, and he focused on the problem at hand. John was with the murderer.

The first day he’d come back to Sherlock from the dead, and he was already flirting with death.

 

* * *

 

John looked around the room, “So. This is where I’m suppose to die then?” He asked.

The man smiled, “If you lose the game that is.”

John nodded his conceding that point.

The man grabbed a chair, and he sat, “Might as well get comfortable,” John sat across from him at that, and he watched the other man, “So what is it that you know?” The man asked, “Or rather what is that makes you so comfortable with thinking that you’ll walk out of this alive?”

“I know when to spot danger,” John answered honestly, “And I’ve a very keen eye for reading my way out of it. Dangerous thing after all, dying that is.” Die in the wrong spot and you’ll be chased for years. Die too soon and someone will see and then something will be lost forever.

Perhaps if Sherlock had been a detective from the beginning he wouldn’t have been able to come back to him. Perhaps he would have just conceded the point and let Sherlock in on the secret.

Perhaps didn’t matter.

He leaned in, and he folded his hands on the table in front of him, “I know you’re dying already.” He motioned to the back his own ear to mirror the man’s spot of shaving, “You’re alone, not involved with a peer otherwise you’d have left the house clean, but the picture of kids in the car means you have someone that matters in your life. And yet, you spend your evenings murdering people when you could be spending them with them? Cabs - I doubt they make much money driving. And I doubt dying is a cheap thing these days. So you’re on someone’s payroll.”

“Rather clever that. You never did explain how you knew I was dying.”

“I’m a doctor,” John answered without realizing what he’d said, “And I know the eyes of a dying man.”

“You’re really not Sherlock Holmes, are you?”

John winced, but then he leaned back in his seat, “Still. I live with the man. I’m sure your sponsor will pay you for my death. I’ll still play your game.”

The man nodded. “I just wanted to be an actor. Couldn’t find any jobs.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

He pulled out a pill bottle and set it on the table, and then he pulled out a second one and silence settled.

“You give me the name,” John whispered, “And I will take your pill.”

“The game is choosing-”

“They’re both poison. I want the name first.”

“The name won’t do you much good if ya dead, now will it, Dr…?”

“Name doesn’t matter,” John answered, He pulled out his gun, and he set it on the table beside the pills, “The name won’t do you much good either if you’re the dead one.”

“Moriarty,” He answered simply, “Don’t see what good that will do you though.”

John nodded, and he grabbed the pill in front of him. He watched, “The game was that I take one and that you’d take the other, wasn’t it?”

“I-” The man stuttered.

“Can’t imagine he’d appreciate me walking away, because I’ve made it quite clear that I can do that. And, you’re still doing this for your family.”

“How do you really know that I’m short for this world?”

“Your clothing.” He answered softly, “Good condition, cared for, but old. You’ve given up on keeping up with the time you’re living in. It stopped for you. Years ago.”

The man nodded. His eyes were wet, and he opened the cap to his pill container. John did the same. They poured the pills into their hands at the same time. John threw his pill back first.

He swallowed it. And then he showed his empty mouth to his killer. The man nodded at the sight of it, and then he did the same.

The door slammed open, and Sherlock was staring at him with wild vicious eyes. He stared at the empty vial in John’s hand.

“No.”

John smiled at his son, “Good to see you. I never did say,” He started to choke. He struggled to clear his throat, “The Thames.” Was all he managed before the light of consciousness faded away, and his rebirth began.

 

* * *

 

Awakening. Much better word. He amended as he finally dragged himself up onto the shoreline, “So,” John said casual, “When I said I can’t die.”

“You meant that if you ever died, the earth cleaned up after you and then spat you back out via the nearest body of water?” Sherlock frowned as he held out his coat.

John shrugged, “You’d think then with that hypothesis that earth would be willing to let me keep my pants at the very least.”

“Stingy,” Sherlock provided.

“Absolutely.”

“So what is going on with you then?”

“I don’t know,” John answered, “Three centuries, and I still don’t know.”

Sherlock nodded, “I have photos of us together - from that last night. When I got my first camera. You look younger now.”

“Makeup.” John answered, “And perhaps there is some very slight ageing, but I die so often.”

“Trying for it to be permanent?”

“Not at all. Just always end up in trouble spot is all.”

Sherlock said nothing. He was conceding that point.

“Thanks for picking me up.”

Sherlock shrugged, “Really though, John?”

John shrugged, “I didn’t think you’d followed me.”

“That doesn’t make it better-”

“I heard you say the d word,” John pointed at Sherlock, “Before I left the flat completely. When I was on the stairs.”

Sherlock was simply not amused or impressed by John’s attempt to change the subject, “Yes, dad. That’s what I said. Happy?”

John shrugged, “You say John with more love then when you said that. I won’t ask for an exchange.”

“How are you so old?” Sherlock asked.

John smiled. He simply smiled at that. “Take out?”

“Hungry?” Sherlock asked.

John nodded, “A bit yeah. I did just die. I think some take away comfort is in order.”

Sherlock’s sigh was strained, “You’re going to be like this now then, I take it?”

“Casual with dying?” John asked, “I’ve always been. Why do you think the estate is on a lake?”

Sherlock froze, “You mean-”

“You’ll have to say more, Sherlock. I don’t know when you’re talking about.”

“It happened more then once?”

“You probably haven’t figured out the whens yet, but yes, my boy. It did happen more then once raising you.”

“The grappling hook?”

“When I swung too high, got stuck in a tree, then disappeared after I fell from it? Then you found me dripping wet by the lake?”

“You weren’t naked then.”

“I owned the land by it! I had clothing stashed there in case of emergencies.”

“You thought-”

“In off time I experiment with dying, Sherlock,” John corrected, “Before you came on the scene.”

“What? Why would you do that?”

John didn’t answer, and after a moment, Sherlock’s arm on his shoulder reassured him that he didn’t have to.

“So, old man,” Sherlock purred, “What sort of take out are we stopping for?”

“What’s near the flat? Or on the way.”

“Chinese.”

“Then that. That sounds lovely.”

“Did you know that you can tell -”

“Don’t care. I just want to know that eating it won’t kill me, Sherlock. I’ve only died the once tonight. I would rather not go for another swim.”

Sherlock stared at John for a moment, “I’m - I’m going to need to get use to this.”

John shrugged, “I suppose so, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stared at his father for a moment, but then he smiled, and he pulled the old man closer, “It’s reassuring to know that I don’t have to worry about losing you.  _ Again. _ ”

John frowned, “The cabbie came to the flat for you.”

“Oh?”

“You have a fan apparently. A criminal mastermind that you keep clogging up the gears for?”

“Had no idea. Do you have a name?”

“Moriarty. Just Moriarty.”

Sherlock frowned, getting lost in his thoughts, “Moriarty, huh?”

John nodded.

“Would have found that to be exciting a week ago. Now? Just a bit a dread.”

John nodded in agreement, “But, we’ll handle it if he tries again.”

“Protecting me even if you die trying?” Sherlock asked with a smirk, a weak smirk.

John smiled, and he looked at up at Sherlock as they made their way to the street, “Of course. And even then, Moriarty won’t be able to stop me then.”

A throat behind them cleared, and they turned together to see Mycroft, “Brother?” Sherlock nearly shouted.

“Yes,” Mycroft answered, “That is exactly who I am.” He nodded to John, “But I do believe I have a right to know-”

“If you give myself or Sherlock any problems, My. Then you’ll understand that not only east winds are the ones that cause your family problems.”

“What?” Mycroft stiffened, straightened away from the umbrella he was leaning on. He looked ready to attack John - if he hadn’t been so scared.

“I’m not threatening Sherlock,” John answered, “Just you. And Uncle Rudy, I suppose. Do keep from telling anyone that I’m back, will you?”

“I don’t-”

“Then sleep on it for a night, Mycroft. No one will believe you in the morning anyways.”

“Dr. Hamish?” Mycroft whispered.

John frowned, “I already told you that, Mycroft.”

“I don’t understand, but how?”

“Followed Sherlock here?”

“The cabbie case,” Mycroft answered, “Sherlock asked me to help find Dr. Watson and then next I knew it made my attention to know that the cabbie was dead, committed his own suicide. No news of yourself or of Sherlock. So of course I found him… And followed him.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock hissed. John patted Sherlock’s hand and stepped away from his boy.

“Going to follow me?” John asked, fear in his breath.

“What are you afraid of, Uncle John?”

John smiled at that, “I didn’t expect-”

“Sherlock - after what you did to him - is now running around London with you at his side as if nothing ever happened. I assure you, John, I will make you pay if you hurt him again.”

John grabbed Mycroft’s shoulder, and he squeezed it as his eyes got a bit moister then he thought they would be, “I did it so I could set up Watson. I did what I did so I could stay with my son.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to say something, but then he couldn’t seem to find the words or the answers that seem to flutter about his in eyes. So, instead of looking at John, Mycroft turned his attention to Sherlock, “Brother?” He managed softly.

Sherlock looked away, like he’d been caught and had to think of a way to get out of it. John knew the askance gaze well from raising the boy, but then Sherlock looked back to Mycroft with such a tired face of relief. And, Sherlock nodded. That was it.

Mycroft nodded back, and he pulled away from John, adjusted his umbrella, “I always knew you’d make by brother better after what happened - or make him worse. It seems you’ve proven both, John.”

“I’ll keep him busy,” John answered, “I’ll keep him safe.”

“You-” Mycroft started before stopping. He looked out over the Thames, and Mycroft stared at London for a moment before his smile, the honest one that looked so broken and glued back together, came to his lips, “Thank you.” He said instead.

He let his words hang in the air as he climbed into his car. He was gone before John or Sherlock could think of a thing to say to him.

“What about when I get old?” Sherlock asked instead.

“Do you plan on staying in London?” John asked.

“I’ll retire. So no.”

“Then I’ll come with, and it will be somewhere new. Somewhere that they’ve never heard of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. And if somehow that becomes an impossibility because you’ve taken over the world and thrust me into the spotlight right along with you? Then I’ll live in the basement with a different name and with a face far too young to be the man in the stories anyways.”

Sherlock smiled, there was nothing more to be said, “Chinese carry out was it?” He asked instead.

John nodded, and he fell in pace beside Sherlock.

“I can predict the fortune cookies.”

“No, you can’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Yes, Sherlock. I can know that. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

Sherlock snorted at that, and they fell into an easy conversation that made them forget the years lost between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> same disclaimer as the last. i wanna keep working on this au, but now life means it's not going to be updated for a very long time. so I hope this is wrapped up well enough here in the sort of so the adventure continues sort of way that way no one can yell at me for marking this as complete because i'm erring on the side of caution that it is such, and not on the side of err that is my desire to write all the fanfics.
> 
> thanks for reading! i hope enjoyed!


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